


The Wittgenstein Society

by executrix



Category: Firefly
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dateline: Osiris. The view from the closet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wittgenstein Society

Simon surrounded the last bit of pickle with the last grains of rice, nibbled, and put his chopsticks down across the bowl. Pilar glided over to clear the dishes, and he said "Please go up to the attics and find my tailcoat," he said. "And take it to the tailor to be pressed…and if there are any repairs…"

"We thought you'd have to have it lengthened when you got taller," River said, idly pushing a howitzer through the valley of her oatmeal. "But you didn't."

"Well, we thought you'd get cast as Marie and instead you were just one of the toy soldiers," Simon said.

"So what?" River said, her face reddening. "Nobody likes that le-se Nutcracker except the audience, it's boring…"

Regan Tam looked up from the newspaper. "We don't use language like that, River. And Sister Evalina will be very displeased that your sash is wrinkled." (River was supposed to have extra flute practice during Religious Instruction, but she always sneaked out of the music room and into the chapel at the Academy of Our Lady of Perpetual Succor, because she found Christianity fascinatingly exotic. She knew that other people thought that was a funny name, but she didn't know why.) "Simon, what do you need your tailcoat for? We don't have any white-tie events this season…"

"Perhaps you could do me a favor, Mother," Simon said, smiling down at the tablecloth as he prepared his bombshell. "If you could call on Viveka Hsieng? Because Dorothy Hsieng has asked me to be her escort for the Governor's Cotillion, and it **is** conventional for the families to be on calling terms…"

Regan put down her melba toast before she aspirated it. "Oh, Simon," was all she managed to say while she struggled to compose her features.

The Hsiengs were what Simon thought of as an Evangelical family: because the usual response to any mention of their name was a chanted "My GOD they're rich."

"Where did you meet her, Simon dear?"

"The Wittgenstein Society," he said. "It's a club at Uni, so we can participate in…cultural events…with the **right** sort of people."

"Isn't Dorothy that fat girl with the awful haircut?" River asked.

"She isn't fat, she's athletic," Simon said. "And she has to keep her hair short because the pool chlorine is bad for it and she has to wash it a lot when she plays lacrosse."

"Who's her military escort going to be?"

"Her cousin Geraint," Simon said.

"Oh, well, then, she'll probably marry him instead of you," River said.

"I'm not going to get married for ages yet," Simon said. "I'm only seventeen." He looked at his watch—good, he had timed it right—"Got to run, don't want to be late for VR anatomy lab. 'Bye River, good morning, Mother." ("That wasn't bad, Mr. Tam," Professor Kuoh said. "You only managed to kill the patient three times in the course of a perfectly routine elective procedure.")

He arrived at the clubhouse in a bad mood—even if people didn't exist, he hated killing them—so he flicked through magazines in the Library for a while, then shot some pool with Dorothy and her extremely unsuitable townie girlfriend. (He liked Dorothy because she was a chemist, the only club member in the physical sciences; Simon had little patience for lengthy discussions of Earth-that-Was poetry.) The Wittgenstein Society frowned on relationships between members, although two of its founders were still together after twenty years, running an antique shop. On Beaumonde. However, the Wittgenstein Society also frowned on relationships with the Wrong Kind of People because, in either case, it took only one jealous or spurned or bored or malicious person to bring the whole house of cards crashing down.

"Sorry," Simon said. "I have to go pick up girls." He kissed Dorothy on the cheek, and managed to get ambushed by Robert Dembitz, whom Simon liked although or because he Wasn't Safe in Taxis. Simon kept meaning to point out that they were much too old to play Seven Minutes in Heaven but never managed to get around to it.

Traffic was bad, exacerbated by a ticker tape parade for returning war heroes, and Simon cursed himself for cutting it fine. He had no illusions about the male contingent of the Partnering class for the Fifth Years at the school of the Ballets Terre-Ci-Devant de Capital City. Because of the chronic shortages of boys, he knew that it consisted of two dancers and a hatrack. River reported conscientiously on the progress of every crush that any of the girls had on Simon. He thought of it as a complete ecosystem, a veritable Crush ecosystem.

Because Simon was very nearly late, Barclay McNeil had already left the dressing room, much to Simon's regret. Barclay was one of the best dancers in the Fifth Year class, and he was very…ai-ya!…for a fifteen-year-old. Very.

River grimaced at the first notes of Chopin—she told everybody that she played better than the pianist, which happened to be true—and reached out and further rumpled Simon's hair.

"You look different," River said.

"I'm just in a hurry," Simon said. "I'll settle down after the barre."

"No, it's the opposite," she said. "Your face doesn't look as all scrunched-up as usual."

Simon nodded to thank her for the reminder.

Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.


End file.
